


Idle hands (devil's delight)

by dishonestdreams



Series: Transference [7]
Category: Cobra Starship, Danger Days: The True Lives of the Fabulous Killjoys - My Chemical Romance (Album), My Chemical Romance
Genre: Drug Addiction, M/M, Minor Violence, Power Imbalance, Slavery, Threats, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-29
Updated: 2020-04-29
Packaged: 2021-02-26 19:09:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23907862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dishonestdreams/pseuds/dishonestdreams
Summary: Just how does a boy like Gerard fall into the hands of a 'runner like Poison?
Relationships: Party Poison/Gerard Way
Series: Transference [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/821688
Comments: 2
Kudos: 2
Collections: Scribblers' 100 Fandoms Challenge





	Idle hands (devil's delight)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pushkin666](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pushkin666/gifts).

> Here's where the story starts (even if we wrote a shitload of it already...)
> 
> Written a few months back to celebrate the illustrious occasion of pushkin666's birth, because she does like it when boys get all dark and nasty. She was most insistent that I reproduce it here. Enjoy?
> 
> Claimed as fic-the-whatever-number-I'm-up-to in my 100 fandoms challenge (because MCR might be in there, but Danger Days is not and I think they're different fandoms. My game, my rules)

There’s a dust storm brewing to the east, and Poison’s nursing the last of his grease-juice and debating the merits of racing it back to the diner (pro: the adrenaline kick as he hares ahead with the dust at his heels makes him feel alive like nothing else; con: the scouring bite of a dust funnel on bare skin if it catches him is a _bastard_) when one of Vicky’s boys drops into the seat opposite him.

“Her Majesty wants to see you,” he offers, without wasting time on a greeting, and Poison briefly considers putting a blaster bolt in his stomach. It’s a fleeting thought; Vicky’s protective of what she names as hers and he’s pretty sure she’s still pissed at him for the last time he shot one of her people. Besides, Kobra will be fucking _incandescent_ if Poison burns all their bridges with Vicky. She’s hands-down the best fixer in the zones.

Not that he doesn’t _like_ pushing Kobra’s buttons, but there’s better ways to do it than cutting off their most reliable ammo supply. Plus which, Vicky’s also Ghoul’s top source for all that mech-shit he likes, and Ghoul is a vindictive fucker when he’s crossed. Poison’s not generally down for that kinda shit.

“Not interested,” he says airily. “Last I checked she still wanted to shoot me and I’m not really in the mood.”

The boy grins. “She thought you might say that. She said to tell you that she owes you. For Zone Three. And you know she likes to pay her debts.”

Poison drums his fingers against the grimy tabletop. He hasn’t been in Zone Three for a few weeks, but he has an idea what Vicky might be talking about. Last time he was there, he might have started a bit of a party. Nothing too bad by his reckoning, pretty low body count really, but it had been enough to quell the itch in his fingers for a few days at least, and for BLI to treble the bounty on his head. Good times, which apparently came with some unexpected side benefits. It wasn’t like he’d set out to do Vicky a favour.

On the other hand, zone runners are all lying fuckers, so it’s entirely possible Vicky is still planning to shoot him and this whole debt line is just that; a line. Assurances don’t really mean shit in the dust; Poison knows that better than most.

He glances out the window. The dust storm has shifted; bearing north and closer to home now than it is to him, and that means there’s no hope of out-racing it no matter how hard he guns the Am. Chasing the storm’s only an option if he wants to get dust-scoured and that’s not his kind of fun.

But he’s _bored_. It’s like a sand-fly itch under his skin; dust-burn at the back of his throat. He fucking hates it. He wants to pull a gun, feel a blast burn scrape his skin. Shoot it out on a highway or fuck it out in an alleyway. He doesn’t care. Something. _Anything_.

If Vicky does try to shoot him, he can at least spin it for Kobra and Ghoul to leave himself blameless.

He grins back at Vicky’s boy, more teeth than humour, and it soothes the buzz under his skin just a fraction when the boy’s smile falters in the face of it. “Come on then,” he says, kicking his chair back with his heel and pushing up onto his feet in one easy movement. “Let’s go see your queen.”

*****

“I owe you a boy,” Vicky says, and Poison shrugs.

There’s a reason they call Vicky the Queen in Zone Five and she’s not disappointing on this visit. Turns out she’s a crook of her word, and he genuinely did save one of her boys back in Zone Three, for a value of saved which meant ‘created enough of a distraction to let a runner to sneak out’. All that’s meant though, so far as Poison can see, is that she’s brought him in for some fucked up tea party, in which she’s playing the consummate hostess, and he’s still bored out of his fucking mind.

Frankly, he’d rather she’d just shot him.

“You owe me,” he corrects, because it never hurts to push. “Never said I wanted a boy though.”

Vicky’s mouth curls into a smile that’s almost wicked, and she reaches out to rest her fingers lightly against Poison’s wrist. Poison’s fingers twitch involuntarily. “Darling,” she says, “You don’t think I would offer you just _any_ boy, do you? This one’s special. As soon as I saw him, I knew he had to be for you.”

“Really,” Poison drawls out, but it’s not a question, and he uses the excuse of leaning back in his chair to slide his hand out from under hers. “Then tell me, sweet queen, if he’s so _special_, what are you waiting for? Why this pretty little dance first?”

Vicky quirks an eyebrow. “Must we behave like savages in order to do business?” she asks coolly, and Poison throws his head back and laughs, short and sharp.

“We usually do, sugar.”

“True,” Vicky concedes. “But can you blame me for craving something a little more… sophisticated?”

Poison bares his teeth at her in a mimicry of a smile, and he can feel the song in his blood as he hears one of her boys shift behind him. This trip might not turn out a complete waste, although the way Vicky jerks her head in a sharp shake says probably not. “You picked the wrong ‘joyboy for that.”

“Apparently so,” Vicky says, and she cuts a glance over Poison’s shoulder. “We’ll do it your way then. Fetch the boy.”

That last clearly wasn’t aimed at him and Poison sprawls back further in his chair in a posture he knows screams insolent nonchalance, but which comes with the added advantage of putting him within easy grasp of his blaster and his knife. 

He’s still fucking _bored_ and, while he’s not optimistic, there’s always a chance he can insult her enough to rile up one of her boys enough that they come over all impulsive. Poison likes impulsive; it opens up all kind of fun possibilities.

“Here he is,” Vicky says suddenly, and Poison twists around just enough that he can get sight of whoever it is that Vicky thinks is so special that she dragged him in here to play guest in her little pantomime.

The boy they drag in isn’t much to look at; hunched over where he needs to stand tall, with dark, greasy hair falling across his face to hide him, and soft where he should be hard, with pale skin that clearly says he’s not been long in the zones. Poison wouldn’t put credits on him lasting more than a night out in the dust, and that’s before he factors in the tell-tale shake in his hands and the tremor across his shoulders that tells him more than everything he needs to know. He cuts Vicky a disparaging look.

“This is the best you’ve got to offer me?” he says dismissively. “I want a rit-rat, Lady V, I can find one down any alley I care to look in and I don’t need to take it home with me. I thought your boys were worth more than that.”

“Look closer. He’s more valuable than you think,” Vicky says, “And he hurts so beautifully. You’ll find him more than worthwhile, I think.”

Poison feels his lip curl into a sneer. “Really? You want to palm me off a junkie whore and you think I’m going to just take him and walk away happy like you just offered me a good deal?” he says. “No offence, sugar, but you’re dust-baked in the head if you think that’s going to work on me.”

Vicky purses her lips disapprovingly, but whatever she’s thinking doesn’t make it out of her mouth. “Look closer,” she says again, instead. “_Look_ at him, Poison.”

Poison has half a mind to tell her to get dusted; he doesn’t take orders from any fucking sandbrat, no matter how regal she might be styling herself, but there’s something in her tone that’s made him curious, and he hates unanswered questions almost as much as he hates being bored. It’s that more than anything else that gets him to uncoil himself from the chair, to take the few quick steps to where Vicky’s boys have pushed this one down onto his knees. He wraps his fingers in the boy’s hair, just as greasy and lank as it had looked from a distance, and tugs. Not hard, not yet, just enough to let him get a clear look at the boy’s face.

His first impressions were bang on the money. Close up, it’s clear to see that the boy has been tweaking, regularly if not recently. There’s a sallowness to his skin and a slackness to his mouth that are both a dead giveaway, and even if Poison hadn’t been sharp enough to spot either of those, the cloudiness in his eyes would have removed the last doubt.

That’s not what catches his attention though, and suddenly, Poison is really fucking clear on why Vicky wanted him to take quite such a close look at this boy,

It’s his face. Younger, softer, for sure, although only by a few years by Poison’s reckoning; less angled and more curved, but the slant of his eyes, the arc of his cheekbone and the curve of his lip is unmistakeable. Poison knows this face; knows it like it’s his own.

Because it is his own.

He catches the boy’s chin between his thumb and forefinger; tight enough to bruise, not that he cares, and uses the hold to turn his head this way and that. It’s fucking undeniable; this rit-rat doesn’t just look like Poison, he _is_ Poison. Same eye colour, same crook in his teeth, same mole on his cheek. Poison’s heard rumours about doppelgangers in the zones, but he’s never _seen_ one before. He’d figured it was just dust-addled delusion spinning in the rumour mill.

Seems not.

His grip tightens, almost involuntarily, and the boy’s eyes snap onto his. Poison takes a sharp breath. Just for a second, just half a heartbeat, there’s something there. Something fierce, burning under the smothering dullness of whatever the fuck this kid is tweaking on. Then it’s gone, the boy’s gaze slides away from his again like sand over glass and Poison could almost think he’d imagined it, except for the tug deep down in his belly that says he didn’t imagine shit.

“You see,” Vicky says, just a hint of smugness wrapped around the words, and Poison shrugs even as her tone makes him bristle.

“Still a fucking rit-rat,” he says and, yes, there it is again. That spark, that flash, that _something_ in the boy’s dull eyes that makes Poison want to strip away the dirt and the drugs and find out what’s hiding underneath. “You want to pay a debt with this, you’re going to have to sweeten the deal. Let’s say a dozen blaster packs and a month’s worth of meal rations.”

“You’re a Killjoy, not a thief,” Vicky says, her tone cool again. “But I’m not unreasonable. I think six packs and a week’s supply of rations should be more than sufficient to consider us even.”

Poison waits a beat, and then nods. It _is_ a good deal after all. “Alright. But he gets the shot as well.”

Vicky draws an audible breath, not quite a gasp, and Poison cuts her a glance but her expression is oddly neutral. “That’s a cruel thing to do to someone out here, Poison,” she says.

Poison shrugs. “It’s a cruel world, V, and I’ve got no time to play nurse to a fucking junkie. You could always send him back inside instead.” He doesn’t wait for her to answer, but he also doesn’t miss the way the boy tenses at the suggestion. Interesting. It’s making him itch to get this kid alone. “He gets the shot, or no deal.”

Vicky purses her lips, but she doesn’t offer any more arguments, which is just _fine_ with Poison. It’s not like he needs her fucking approval. “I can have it all ready inside the hour,” she says.

Poison nods and rubs his thumb slowly over the boy’s bottom lip before he finally lets go of his chin. It doesn’t escape his notice that the boy doesn’t meet his eye again. “I’ll be back.”

*****

Vicky’s good to her word on this too. Poison appreciates the professionalism, although he’ll admit to being a little disappointed when he gets back to find the boy – _his_ boy now – ready and waiting, along with all the supplies they’d agreed. Poison’s got his own supplies burning a hole in his pocket, but those can wait. He’s got a deal to finish first, and he sketches out a mocking bow with a smirk curling the corner of his mouth.

“Always a pleasure, pretty queen,” he says, and Vicky rolls her eyes without even a cursory effort to hide it.

“All yours, I think,” she says, and Poison doesn’t miss the way she cuts a glance at the boy before she meets his gaze fully. “I presume you understand that settling this debt has had no influence on our other business dealings?”

Poison grins, quick and feral, and slings the supply pack onto his back. “Wouldn’t dream it,” he says. “Next time you see me, you can shoot me. Or, you can try.”

“Such arrogance,” Vicky murmurs, and Poison blows her a kiss. She’s not wrong.

He jerks his head at the boy, reaching out to catch hold of his wrist once he’s moved close enough. His eyes are brighter, clearer now, and he’s watching Poison warily from under the flop of his hair. Not stupid this one, not entirely, and that probably sits better with Poison than it should. He shoots the boy a smile, more teeth than anything else, just to see how he’ll react. The flinch he gets in return, suppressed and hidden and small enough that he wouldn’t have seen it if he hadn’t been looking, makes his palms itch with anticipation. “Time to ride, tweak-freak. We got places to be and they’re not here.”

He doesn’t wait for any response; it’s not like he needs _permission_ here, and he sets a pretty punishing pace across the haphazard shanty town. He’s been here too long as it is; this pretty mess might be the biggest settlement in Zone Three, but it’s still small enough to make Poison feel caged and he doesn’t trust any of the runners here as far as he could blast them. There’s a lot of credits riding on his face and he’s not so bored yet that a mandatory holiday to Bat City sounds like a good time.

They’re back at the Am in pretty good time, and Poison shoves the boy into the front seat without a second’s hesitation, before he slings the supplies into the back and pulls himself up behind the wheel.

“Buckle up, tweak-freak,” he says, as he pulls away with a sharp twist of the wheel that throws the boy hard against the door of the Am. “Might be a bumpy ride.”

“Gerard,” the boy says suddenly, and Poison cuts him a quick glance, rewarded with a vicious satisfaction when he spots him rubbing surreptitiously at his elbow.

“What’s that?” he asks, half an eye on the track ahead of them, and the boy scowls at him.

“I am,” he says. “Gerard. That’s my name. Not, not tweak-freak, or rit-rat or whatever the hell else you’ve called me.” He’s got a pretty voice, Poison thinks. Kind of musical; there’s a lilt to it that’s almost sweet, although right now it’s clipped and short; emotion clearly held until tight control, and that’s enough to make something fizz under Poison’s skin again. Gerard’s hands are still shaking, just the edge of a tremor that’s only going to get worse, and Poison can make a good guess at how hard he’s working to keep himself sounding halfway to sane. He knew this one would be fun, and he fucking loves it when he’s right.

“Well, look at you,” he says, mockingly. “All puffed fur and claws out now you’re craving, huh? What kind of zone name is _Gerard_?”

“It’s _my_ name,” the boy – _Gerard_, apparently – says tightly. “And I get that you’re in charge here, I do, but I’d really rather you called me that than anything else.”

Oh. _Oh_. The anticipation is better than any of that fucking sand-shit that BLI peddles to keep the zones under heel. Poison can feel it coursing through his veins and dancing over his skin, and he feels his heartrate tick up a pace while his fingers flex involuntarily against the wheel. He wants, fuck he _wants_. He doesn’t even know _what_ he wants, but it definitely involves Gerard. With his fists, maybe, or on his knees, or on his back; Poison’s not sure yet, but right now he’s not sure he cares. 

“If I gave you a knife,” he says, suddenly, and he sees Gerard startle, eyes wide, “What would you do?”

“I-“ Gerard pauses, then shakes his head slightly. “I don’t-“ 

Poison grins, and he knows it comes out a little vicious and a little feral. “If you don’t know the answer, _sugar_, then you have no fucking idea just how in charge I am.”

Gerard doesn’t say anything, but his jaw twitches as he swallows visibly, and Poison can’t help himself; he reaches out as he brings the Am ghosting to a halt to dig his fingers cruelly tight into Gerard’s thigh.

It’s got to hurt; Gerard’s next inhale is more of a hiss, but he doesn’t make a sound and Poison presses in just that little bit harder. Just to see if he can coax a whimper out of Gerard. Just because he can.

There’s two spots of colour high in Gerard’s cheeks, and he’s avoiding Poison’s eye, his gaze darting erratically left to right, but he stays quiet. Poison leans in closer, closer enough for his lips to brush against Gerard’s ear, and then he breathes in deep. Gerard smells, like dust and sweat and dirt and desperation, but it’s more than that. Poison’s killed enough men to know the scent of fear, and he can taste it on Gerard; just a delectable edge underneath all the shit. 

“Time to go, Gee,” he murmurs. He’s so close that it’s impossible to miss the way the nickname shocks through Gerard like a blaster bolt, and isn’t _that_ an interesting titbit that he’ll file away for later.

Waste not, want not and all that shit.

“Go where?” Gerard asks, and there’s just a tremor skirting around the edge of the words that makes Poison flex his fingers against his thigh just one more time.

“Start of the rest of your life, sugar,” he says, and then he shoves the door open, sending Gerard tumbling out to sprawl on the roadside in one quick motion. Gerard stares up at him, wide eyed, as one hand creeps to rub at his thigh, and Poison grins down at him, razor-sharp. “Time for you and me to get properly acquainted.”

Fuck, but this is going to be _fun_. And at least he’s not bored anymore.


End file.
